


Bits and Pieces

by Skarias



Series: Collateral Damage [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Backstory, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarias/pseuds/Skarias
Summary: He's five years old and he decides he wants to be a soldier. It's deep into the night when he finally spots his father's blaster rifle and accidently pulls the trigger while trying to heave it off it's holding. His mother burrows her head in her hands, his father does his best to hide his amusement.





	Bits and Pieces

 

 

 

**Bits and Pieces**

 

 

He's five years old and he decides he wants to be a soldier. It's deep into the night when he finally spots his father's blaster rifle and accidently pulls the trigger while trying to heave it off it's holding. His mother burrows her head in her hands, his father does his best to hide his amusement.

 

She goes back to sleep, he stays behind and takes the far too heavy weapon out of Avou's hands, storing it savely out of reach a little higher than before. He protests and tells him his plan. His father laughs while rummaging through one of the crates stacked at the wall he didn't know the codes for.

 

 _Maybe we should begin a little lighter_ , he says as he presses a small blaster pistol in his hand, _tomorrow you'll learn how to repair the damn thing._

 

He can't stop smiling as he falls asleep that night, the broken blaster pistol next to him stored away inside his bedside table.

 

-

 

He's seventeen years old and the whole soldier thing didn't quiet work out. Or maybe it did, he's not so sure anymore. He's not a soldier, not in any tradition way. His father once told him that one needs a cause to fight for, otherwise why fight at all. He agrees. He doesn't know if he ever had a cause or will ever find one. Or maybe he did have one all along.

 

Survival.

 

In the end he settles for survival. He believes it's as good a cause as any other.

 

-

 

The Outer Rim was an interesting place.

 

He says interesting because between the scorching sun of Tatooine, the frozen wasteland also known as Hoth and the toxic dump that was Taris, there really wasn't anything you couldn't find here.

 

It doesn't take long for the right people to approach him. He figures he looks intimidating enough to pass as a gang member and finds a new cause to fight for, even if it isn't just survival anymore. Maybe they're not the right people after all.

 

-

 

He's six years old and he can almost lift the heavy rifle long enough to line up a shot on the target dummy they'd set up together, he stumbles backwards and his father catches him. He smiles as he puts one hand below the rifle's barrel and helps him aim the enormous gun. The shot barely grazes the target. He huffs in disappointment and puts the rifle down again.

 

He almost topples over when the world around him suddenly goes dark and a heavy weight presses down on his shoulders. The helmet's interface loads a few moments later and the world isn't so dark anymore, he marvels at all the different little displays and lights while trying to keep his balance and juggle the extra weight.

 

 _Can I try on the rest?_   he asks eagerly, taking a blaster pistol in each hand and aiming towards the distant dummy, amazed how the glimmering interface picks up his  target  even before him. He pulls the trigger and scores a perfect shot.

 

 _Maybe when you're older_ , his father replies, shaking his head and trying not to laugh at the ridiculous sight in front of him. _Let's try moving targets_ , he suggests as the usually lifeless droid in the corner suddenly flashes up and begins to buzz around the room

 

-

 

He's eighteen years old and the blue skinned rodian at gunpoint begs for his life. He's on his knees, hands clasped together in front of his face like some twisted attempt at a prayer.

 

It's just business, he tries to rationalize in his mind. It worked before, why doesn't it work now? His fingers fumble around the blaster pistol in his hand, no longer the same one his father gave to him a lifetime ago, it doesn't just stun anymore.

 

There's a voice in his head. A new voice, it's small and quiet but it's there. He hesitates. His grip loosens.

 

A Choice, he has a choice. The voice sounds unsure but it's still there, fighting for the upper hand in his mind.

 

He lowers the weapon, he opens his mouth and sa-

 

A red bolt flies past him, quick and almost silent. The rodian no longer begs for his live, no longer prays silently to whatever gods he believed in. No. His body hits the floor and the voice inside his head falls silent.

 

 _Were done here_ , the nameless goon behind him says as he turns around and leaves.

 

It's just business, he repeats in his mind. He doesn't believe that anymore.

 

-

 

He's eight years old and the world is burning. He coughs blood as he slams his fists against the door that won't open and soon enough flames and smoke were replaced by nothing but darkness.

 

He doesn't know where he is when he wakes up again.

 

Or at least he thinks he woke up. he's not sure. The room is completely dark, after all. He tries to move but the restraints around his arms and legs keep him from touching anything that might tell him more about the room he's kept in.

 

He can feel the darkness closing in. He's scared and he just wants to go home.

 

Someone screams in the distance and unshed tears begin to stream down the sides of his face as he weeps. He was alone. Alone in the darkness. He wants to go home.

 

-

 

He's nine years old and all his friends are dead and his parents are dead and- and maybe he's dead too.

 

-

 

He's sixteen years old when everything falls in place and the perfect opportunity finally arises after months of planning and secrecy. Encoded notes passed in the protective darkness of the night, careful planning behind his master's back. No. Not his master. He's a man like him and the others. A man that can bleed. A man that can die.

 

A monster that can be put down.

 

The riot began at midnight, when there are only a few guards patrolling the complex, their prison. He waits until the guard is inches away before he jumps out of the shadows and twists his neck until the masked man stops struggling. He grabs his rifle and runs towards the rendezvous point.

 

He'd rather die tonight than live in chains for another day.

 

-

 

He's nineteen years old and this was supposed to be a simple job. Some overeager smuggler had stolen a whole shipment of spice from their current employer and they were sent out to retrieve it.

 

They hadn't mentioned the very big, very angry wookiee.

 

He didn't know why he was still alive when he regained consciousness, his hands and feet bound behind him as he looked around the packed hold of the smuggler's ship.

 

 _Welcome back to the land of the living_ , she says as she enters the hold, without her hat he immediately recognizes her as a mirialan, the distinctive tattoos of her species tracing symmetrically across her face stretching slightly as she smiles, _I think we have some things to talk about._

 

-

 

 _Why didn't you just kill me_ , he groans several eternities of interrogation later while rubbing his temple, he vaguely remembers being thrown around a cargo bay by a wookiee. Still, he was somewhat thankful that she had unbound his hands several minutes into their little chat as there really wasn't anything he could do while he was unarmed on an unfamiliar ship and his feet were bound to a pipe anyway.

 

 _Hah, where would be the fun in that_ , the mirialan replies as she gets up from the crate she had used as a chair and takes a confident step towards him, _besides, I don't have all the answers I want yet. You don't strike me as one of the brainless buffoons these people usually send after me. Wanna tell me why you waste your talent by working for them?_

 

A small chuckle escapes his lips as he listened to the smuggler talk, _That's what you want to know? Not who, or where they are, or why_ _they targeted_ _you?_

 

 _Oh, I think I can guess who and there are only so many holes to hide in. Also I'm pretty damn sure I know why,_ her smile grows a little wider as she looks around the diverse items and crates stacked inside the cargo hold.

 

Avou considers her question, obvious as it may be he had only asked himself that question once, and he hadn't liked the answer he found, _There aren't many alternatives if you want to survive in the Outer Rim, someone like you should know that._

 

Something changed in the way she smiled and the her lit up during the brief pause while she thought about her response, or maybe it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.

 

_How about I give you an alternative?_

 

He listens to her proposal and her demands, a voice making it's presence known inside his mind, a voice he hadn't heard in years. This time he could listen to the voice. He agrees and she cuts him loose.

 

 _I'm Sara, by the way_ , the mirialan introduces herself as she extends her hand towards him. _Let's get to work, shall we?_

 

_-_

 

He's sixteen years old and Marlon Keth's laughter dies in his throat as Avou shoots him square between the eyes, the glass in his hand falls to the floor and the expensive liquor soaks into the colourful carpet below their feet, blending together with his freshly spilled blood to create a gruesome painting across the floor.

 

They cheer. All around him they cheer and he stares at the weapon in his hands. The weapon that brought an end to their suffering. He stares at the corpse of his master and he smiles for the first time in eight years.

 

He throws his arms in the air and cheers with them. He is free.

 

-

 

He's twenty-one years old and it's time to say goodbye.

 

 _Bowdie's gonna miss you, you know that?_   Sara mumbles as they close in on Hutta's laughable excuse of a spaceport, _Fuck, I think I'm gonna miss you too...your cooking, I mean._

 

He smiles as they embrace each other for the last time, _You'r_ _e_ _gonna be fine, I may have thought Corso a_ _recipe_ _or tw_ _o,_ he whispers in her ear as they reluctantly seperate and the airlock opens.

 

 _Don't die out there, idiot!_ She yells after him. He shakes his head tells her the same.

 

-

 

He's fourteen years old and every part of his body hurts. He collapses onto the mattress on the dusty floor he thinks he can hear something inside him break apart.

 

Everyone he ever knew is dead and maybe hes going to die soon too and-

 

_No. This is wrong, he's twenty-two, this isn't real, he's twenty two and they can't hurt him anymore._

 

-

 

He's twenty-two years old and he's on the Mantis. He stares at the ceiling and waits for the adrenaline caused by the nightmares to subside. Avou doesn't remember the last time the alarm next to the bed woke him before his demons got the better of him.

 

-

 

_He's eighteen years old and the rodian's lifeless corpse falls to the floor-_

 

_and he's eight years old and the flames burn him alive as they-_

 

_He's twenty-two._

 

He's twenty-two years old and sits opposite of his best friend aboard his ship. Best friend isn't the right word, she's so much more than that and at the same time he can't think of anything else to call her.

 

But that's unimportat. She's more than that because he tells her. Because she deserves to know. He tells her about his parents, about the first time he shot his father's rifle. About the things that hurt to say, about the people that sold him into slavery and the night he broke through his chains. About the gangs he worked for and the mirialan smuggler that saved him from himself.

 

He tells her about the dreams, about the demons that chase him and about the time he tried armwrestling with Bowdaar and couldn't move his wrist for a week.

 

He tells her everything and he hopes. He hopes she won't turn away and think him a monster. He knows that she should. He knows that he doesn't deserve her. She has lost so much.

 

He stops talking when he feels her body pressed against his, Mako's arms swung around him as she simply holds him, and he lets her. He returns the hug and for a while they just sit there, on the worn out sofa inside the ship that had become their home over the last year of their adventures.

 


End file.
